


Mr. Charles Xavier, Travelling

by bad_peppermint



Category: Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Adultery, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Historical, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Homosexuality, M/M, Mutant Hate, Period-Typical Homophobia, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bad_peppermint/pseuds/bad_peppermint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik knows what he wants: revenge on Shaw. It's all he's wanted since the camps, and now that he's so close, not even his obnoxious socialite neighbor is going to keep him from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Charles Xavier, Travelling

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, a HUGE thank-you to my artist, [cheezybananaz](http://cheezybananaz.livejournal.com) for the original art prompt that I fell in love with immediately. ♥ Go share your adoration for their creation [here](http://cheezybananaz.tumblr.com/post/110090089675/x-men-reverse-bang-round-3-mr-charles-xavier). Thanks also for the additional art that I was lucky enough to receive, and for being an amazingly good sport about me emo-ing all over their sweet, adorable idea. Seriously, thank you so much. I had so much fun with this.
> 
> Thank you to [attackegg](http://attackegg.livejournal.com/) for being a fantastic last-minute beta. For your kind words and your straight-forward feedback, I am deeply grateful. ♥
> 
> And, of course, thank you to the mods over at [xmenreversebang](http://xmenreversebang.livejournal.com) for making all this possible, for being just-lax-enough about the rules and yet pulling it all together so well. It's been fun. Hope I'll see you again next year.
> 
> \---
> 
> Oh, you wanted to hear about the fic? Well. It's a Breakfast at Tiffany's/X-Men Crossover. It's also a B@T's book/movie crossover, because that is how I roll. I recommend the book heartily, as I assume most of you have seen the movie at some point. If you haven't, it's also worth checking out.  
> Tiffany does sell chess sets. I found mention of one from the 1970s, but who ~~cares~~ knows? I'm sure there were earlier ones, as well.  
>  As for the historical bits - I did some research. I'm not a historian and I'm certainly not an eye witness, so certain things might be a little hand-wavey. If you find something that strikes you as historically inaccurate, please let me know and I will do my best to search and ~~destroy~~ correct.
> 
> Also, there is A LOT of alcohol consumed in this story. Seriously. Majorly unhealthy amounts. Do NOT try this at home.
> 
> Happy reading!

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/CagedTroll/media/CX-Travelling.jpg.html)

Erik's job at the boatyard is his first foray into respectability. After a decade of blindly jumping at every mention of Shaw's name, like a dog that doesn't realize someone is yanking on his bone, he's decided to switch strategies. Shaw is smart. Traveling the globe like a crazed drifter, hoping to gain admittance to the man's circles on sheer luck alone, is clearly not a winning strategy.

So respectability is the key. Patience. Erik, after several weeks of schooling himself to be stoic and submissive, even when the foremen are thick and coarse, finds a position as a metal worker in the harbor, grinding machines together in the still grey morning light. The pay is abysmal but the work is simple – simpler still because the metal molds itself to Erik’s will, even when it won’t mold itself to the machinery. It's hard to create the parts he's supposed to when he has so much singing, enchanted metal at his fingertips, but he thinks of Shaw and keeps his head down.

With his first paycheck, Erik buys the most expensive-looking suit he can find and meets Emma Frost. He goes to all her clubs, bars, luncheons, until her indifferent glances turn to recognition, and her recognition to interest. She can tell his suit is cheap, but she's intrigued enough to rent them a room. Her pristine white dress she takes off herself; she doesn't trust Erik not to wrinkle it. She mentions Shaw afterwards, in an off-handed way, like Erik has no right to care. Erik feigns indifference. She's a telepath, but she can't read his intentions. Or maybe she can, and she just doesn't care.

When Erik dresses, she slips a card into his pocket. "Call me when you have a place to stay," she says. "As long as there are no roaches."

Erik departs with a nod and no goodbye-kiss on the doorstep. He’ll call her when he has a place to stay, and then he’ll stay in her good graces until she lets slip Shaw’s location, and then he’ll exact revenge and disappear before she can exact hers.

So the job is his first – organized – step in Shaw’s direction. His second is the apartment. It's on the second floor of a brownstone in Greenwich Village, flanked left and right by more of the same. There are some bars and a corner shop a few streets down. Best of all it's quiet, with all the anonymity a large city can afford. Here, no one will care how he comes and goes, and few but the landlord will notice when he inevitably disappears.

The boatyard is hard work. It's not backbreaking for him the way it is for his colleagues, but staying focused with all that metal around him, bending it in ways it doesn't naturally want to bend, is physically taxing nonetheless. It starts at the crack of dawn, too, and Erik spends the first few weeks at his new residence asleep, falling into bed before sunset, some days, and crawling out of it what feels like far too short a time later.

As such, he only knows the late shift at the little deli down the street, and his neighbors as nothing but cards on the post boxes.

Things stay that way, the whole universe in a delicate balance, until one Thursday morning, early enough for the birds to have barely started chirping, when Erik, running late, yanks open the front door at a half-jog. Reflex alone has him catching the man that falls into his arms. He staggers under the weight, cursing softly. The glass set into the inside door rattles under the impact.

Erik’s assaulter smacks his lips softly. He buries his nose in Erik’s shoulder, heaves a sigh and then beams up at Erik, smile delighted and radiant, like that might make Erik forget he’s just literally been bowled over by a stranger. A young stranger, barely more than a boy. Erik, all told, probably isn't that much older. He feels older, though. He feels like he's been bearing the burden of the world for a thousand years. His counterpart, on the other hand, looks like he hasn’t a care in the world. He’s handsome, in that clean-cut way Americans seem to like, with shaggy hair and a remarkably straight nose, and he’s currently rumpling a suit that looks like it costs more than Erik makes in a month.

Actually, considering the smell when he opens his mouth, he’s probably spent more than Erik makes in a month on alcohol tonight.

“Bless you, my friend,” the man slurs. “I was going to buzz Miss Ashida, _again_ , but she always gets so cross I can feel it down to my toes.”

Erik carefully props the man up against the mailboxes – less out of concern and more because he doesn’t want to be held accountable if the man falls over and ruins his alcohol-flushed face. He hesitates, hands raised, ready to shoot forward and steady him, which is taken as some sort of invitation to please, ramble on.

“It’s because I always lose my keys, you know. I’ve had so many made – or rather, Armando had some made, for me, you understand, but I just seem to lose them all.” He shakes his head sadly. “I don’t know where they go.”

Erik doesn’t even have to focus for that one. “It’s in your shoe,” he says. He leaves while the man, movements slow and deliberate and apparently requiring a great deal of focus, gropes for his socks, making pleased little noises all the while.

* * *

Out of some sick fascination, Erik checks the mailboxes for some clue as to his mysterious assailant when he gets home from work. There are only four, one of which is Erik himself. _Ashida, Noriko_ is the young Japanese girl living above Erik, the one who usually buzzes the drunkard in during the early morning hours and is far too reserved and polite to ever tell him off for it. The C of _C. Reyes_ turns out to stand for Cecilia, so Erik's nightmare neighbor can only be the one in the flat right below him. The name card, embossed on expensive stock, reads _Mister Charles F. Xavier, Travelling._ Erik’s mail slot, right beside it, is labelled _E. Lenserr_ in the super’s impatient handwriting. Charles Xavier. It suits the drunken mess that stumbled into him in the morning, for all that it tells Erik absolutely nothing. Erik still hasn’t developed an ear for accents, but Charles sounded foreign, of sorts. Or perhaps merely drunk. Still, there was a certain tilt to his words that New Yorkers use, the flat vowels and the lazy r’s, so either he hasn’t been travelling for a while or he hasn’t really travelled all that far. Erik doesn’t know, and he doesn’t plan on encountering the man again if he can help it, so he’s not ever going to know.

* * *

It's about three weeks after that that Erik wakes up to screaming. He jerks upright in his bed, caught in memories that linger even after he's realized that he's in New York, now, and the people screaming aren't his friends and loved ones but two drunken assholes in the alleyway below his window.

It's the middle of the night; as dark as the city ever gets, and not too long before Erik has to rise for work. In the same manner that the terror recedes, his anger grows. The cutlery on the plate left on his nightstand rattles as he swings his legs off the bed. His window is open the tiniest gap; to let in a bit of fresh air, and also because it doesn't close all the way. Erik pushes it up and climbs out onto the fire escape.

There are indeed, he finds when he leans over the banister, two drunken assholes in the alley below him, and one of them is his drunk mess of a neighbor. Erik isn't particularly surprised, though he is a little taken aback at having interrupted what sounds suspiciously like a late night lovers’ spat. The other man is on a roll, accusing Charles of sleeping around behind his back and being uninterested in sex in almost the same sentence, shouting his jealous rants halfway across the alley for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Charles, in contrast, is infuriatingly calm. He rubs at his temples, like he's a weary parent dealing with an unreasonable toddler rather than the instigator of this little spat currently waking up half the street. "Jean-Paul," he says with a sigh. "Come now. Let's not make a scene."

It's a little too late for that, in Erik's opinion. In any case, the beau doesn't seem to particularly care for Charles’s tone, which is something Erik can understand, no matter how much he wants to wring Jean-Paul’s neck.

"Don't condescend me," he snarls. "What, you think you're so feckin’ wonderful, with your education and your upper-crust accent? You're still just a queer. An arrogant asshole of a queer, you bastard."

"I can assure you, my parents had dotted every i and crossed every t on their marriage contract before they even thought about conceiving me," Charles says, with a bit of a sneer. He takes a deep breath, settling himself, before he pastes a smile on his face. "But please. Won't you come in and settle this small disagreement over a good scotch, or must we have this out in the street like a pair of alley cats?"

"Oh, you think you can just get me drunk and I'll forget about everything?" Jean-Paul snarls.

Charles fidgets like perhaps he was thinking exactly that, but Erik has heard more than enough. He has about two hours’ worth of uninterrupted sleep left, and he's not going to sacrifice it to listen to these two squabble.

"Hey," he snaps.

Both look up after a second's delay, appearing surprised to find that they have company. Neither of them seems aware of any wrongdoings, though, so Erik draws himself up to his full height, ignoring his bare feet, and crosses his arms over his chest. "You wanna shut up anytime soon?"

Charles grins a little, more mock-apologetic than anything, but at least he's trying. His little lover boy, though, bares his teeth and snarls up at Erik like Erik is the one disturbing strangers in their slumber.

"You wanna mind your own fucking business?" He turns back to Charles after that, drunk idiot that he is. Few people have turned their back on Erik and lived to regret it.

There's a war-era Cadillac rusting towards a slow death parked a little ways down the alley. With a curl and flip of his hand, he lifts it into the air and over to the two men, letting it hover threateningly no five feet away.

"Allow me to rephrase," he says, baring his teeth in satisfaction when, looking up, the bravado has disappeared from both their faces. "If you don't shut up, I’m going to _repark_ that car right on top of you."

Charles's suitor glares at him, but the car hovering in the air sends its message well enough. He mumbles something to Charles, no doubt half promise, half threat to call on him, and ambles off into the night.

Charles and Erik watch him go, each from their vantage point. Once he's disappeared into the dim gloom that is New York City's night, Charles turns to beam up at Erik. "If you'll buzz me in, I'll go straight to bed, my friend. I promise."

Erik drops the car not-so-gently onto the pavement and unlatches the door with a flick of his hand.

"Beautiful!" Charles calls up to him. "Telekinesis?"

Erik's stern glare seems to remind him that he promised to turn in. He stumbles on the steps, catches himself, grins. "Tomorrow," he says. To Erik, it's more of a threat than a promise. "Tomorrow," he says. "Come downstairs, have a drink. Tell me about yourself!"

Erik scoffs. He turns away to tug the curtains closed, barely catching Charles's, "Good night, my friend," before the front door closes behind him.

* * *

Erik doesn’t go down for a drink. In fact, he goes out of his way to avoid running into Charles, leaving the house late enough to risk being late for work just to minimize the chance of another early morning meeting. He should have figured that Charles is not that easy to get rid of, and yet, when a knock on his door comes early one morning, he is bleary-eyed and unthinking enough to open the door without checking who’s on the other side.

"Hello, neighbor." Charles beams at him. "I hope I didn't wake you. This time." He laughs like that's funny. "I saw your light on, so I figured I’d give it a shot. We haven't had a chance to meet properly, I'm afraid, so I thought it was high time to rectify that. Charles." He sticks out his hand, the one not cradling a liquor bottle to his chest, beaming still. "It's always nice to meet kindred spirits. Interpersonal differences are wonderful for broadening one's horizons, of course, but sometimes it's good to speak with people one can relate to on such a base level, wouldn't you agree?"

Erik can't say that he and Charles have much in common with one another, so he simply offers a reluctant, "Erik."

"Lehnsherr," Charles says, with surprisingly accurate pronunciation. "I was wondering what the E stood for. I'm Charles Xavier, though it does say so on my mailbox. I'm traveling, at the moment, though since I've now been here so long I’ve been replaced as newest tenant in the building, I suppose that is an outdated description."

When Erik just stares at him, mind blank, he smiles. He gives the bottle an enticing waggle. "And how do you occupy your time, my friend?"

Erik's thoughts immediately flit to Shaw, to the years spent trailing his bloody footprints through a war-ravaged Europe, South America, through the dirt-poor slums of sprawling cities in the USA. Shaw likes the expensive parties, the exclusive clubs, the high life, but his victims he finds among the destitute. The desperate.

"Dock work," he has mind enough to tell Charles, but his neighbor's smile has faded a little.

"I see," he says softly.

Erik takes the bottle. It's no brand he's ever heard of, but it looks expensive.

“Well,” Charles continues, voice soft. “I don’t think I can blame you for being such a terribly antisocial lout, then.”

He says it lightly, like he’s teasing, or pretending to be teasing. And yet, Erik can’t help but think that he’s missing something.

"What are you talking about?"

Slowly, gently, Charles lays two fingers on Erik's lower arm, over the numbers he’d been so sure he'd kept well hidden. Erik can’t help flinching when Charles makes contact with the fabric of Erik's sleeve, but Charles doesn’t seem to mind. He hardly seems to notice, even, smiling softly at Erik without moving away.

Charles smiles sadly. "The perfect trifecta," he says. "I can understand why you're so worried about letting anyone in."

Erik pulls his arm away. "You don't know me," he says.

"But I'd like to."

Erik doesn’t know what to say to that, so he looks away.

Charles, on the other hand, more than makes up for it. He grins disarmingly, and says, "Any chance you'd like to invite me in for a drink? We could chat for a bit about that beautiful accent of yours."

"I have to go to work," Erik says.

"That's fine," Charles assures him happily. "Some other time, then. I just wanted to thank you for coming to my rescue."

Erik, deciding discretion is the better part of valor, doesn’t tell him he’d been planning on dropping the car on the both of them.

* * *

Unwelcome visitors, it seems, have become the norm. No two weeks after Charles’s early morning – or late night, for Charles – visit, Erik wakes on his free day to a cat tangled in the blanket he’d hung over the fire escape’s railing to dry. A huge, angry beast of a cat, so black it looks almost blue, hissing and wailing and clawing large tears into one of Erik’s most expensive possessions.

Cursing, Erik works open the window and sets to untangling the animal. He earns himself several long gashes in the soft undersides of his arms for his troubles, and as far as he can tell, he hasn’t actually saved the blanket from further harm.

“Shoo,” he snarls at the cat. “Get out of here before I buy a dog to sic on you.”

“Erik?”

He groans. Of _course_ Charles had to appear just then, standing with one leg thrown over his window sill, with what looks like a genuine Spanish guitar held by the neck.

“What’s going on?” Charles asks, staring up at him. “I just came out here to play some songs, but you’re making such a racket – you’re bleeding! What on Earth are you doing?”

“Fighting with this hellion,” Erik snaps, gesturing sharply at the cat, which takes the opportunity to jump gracefully down a level, landing right in front of Charles.

“Beast!” Charles cries, delighted.

Erik doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Of course a neighbor as awful as Charles would have an equally horrendous pet. Still, he rubs his forehead. “You’ve named your cat ‘Beast’?”

Laughing, Charles turns his wrist to reveal scabbed cuts matching the ones on Erik’s arms. “What better name is there, really?” He drops the guitar and reaches for the animal without hesitation, supporting it with one hand underneath its hind legs and letting it curl its neck over Charles’ shoulder. “I’m sure he has an equally unflattering name for me, as well.”

Erik certainly has some unflattering names for Charles, but he can’t remember any of them at the moment. Not with Charles smiling at him in a patch of early morning sunlight, smelling of smoke and alcohol and yet looking so innocent.

* * *

  
[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/CagedTroll/media/breakfastatT1.jpg.html) [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/CagedTroll/media/breakfastatT2.jpg.html)

* * *

He telephones Emma from the bar around the corner, watching the burley, hairy barman watch Erik. _Logan’s_ , he tells her. She actually calls him by his name when she takes down his address, so Shaw must be out of town. It’s no surprise. Erik has only heard of Shaw actually being in New York once, and he was gone before Erik could get his hands on him.

Erik tells her his hours, and she makes pleased noises into the receiver. “I’ll swing by one of these days,” she says. She clucks her tongue, thoughtful. “Do I need to bring my pistol?”

Erik does his best to keep his annoyance out of his voice. He needs her to get to Shaw. “It’s not that bad of an area,” he says instead. “I’ve lived here for weeks and I’ve never even seen a mugging.”

She tuts. “Darling. You’ve lived there for weeks and you’re only calling me now?”

He _needs_ her. “I assumed you’d like a bed,” he said, just shy of snide. “Perhaps a chair. Don’t hold out hope for a mirror, though.”

She laughs, this time. “When’s your day off? I’ll make the time.”

After the call, Erik orders a shot of whiskey at the bar. The man behind it pours with gruff efficiency. They’re about the same height, but he’s got broad shoulders and a vicious look about him. Erik wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of him.

“You new around here?” the man says when he slides it over. The cigar in his mouth makes his speech almost impossible to understand. Erik’s English is fair by now, but accents are still difficult. He hates it when people make it even harder than it has to be.

Still, he downs his drink and nods. “Live up the street.”

The man stares at him, silent. When Erik, caving, tells him the address, he nods. “Around where Chuck lives,” the man says. He rolls his cigar around his mouth.

“Charles?” Erik says. “Same building.”

Whatever the man says next is unintelligible. Erik isn’t sure he really wants to know.

* * *

Emma comes on Sunday afternoon. Erik isn’t sure if she goes to church, but she’s certainly turned out in her Sunday best, a demure white dress that makes her look more enticing, not less. Heads turn as she walks down the street, and Erik makes sure to stay out of sight when he lets her in.

He wants to feel proud at this place that he’s renting, the first place he’s bothered to call his own since his parents were marched out of his childhood home, but the expression on Emma’s face sours any joy he might have felt. Instead, he holds himself stiffly, sitting on the bed while she surveys the sparse furnishings with a critical eye. “How perfectly quaint,” she says at last.

“You told me to find a place,” Erik says, jaw tight.

“This is not a ‘place,’ my dear, it’s a rat trap. There’s a lovely little studio in the Plaza that we own – we have acquaintances stay sometimes, but it wouldn’t take much doing to convince everyone it’s being renovated.”

“Everyone being Shaw,” Erik says.

She starts a little. “Ah.” She polishes at her fingernails with her cape, an oddly nervous gesture considering her aloof expression. “I suppose it was inevitable, that you know.”

“Hard not to,” Erik says. He’s not sure if she means that he knows about her husband or knows that her husband is Shaw, so he keeps his expression blank. He leans back against the headboard and crosses his ankles. “He’s away a lot, then?”

“The rumor mill.” Sighing, she gets up from her seat and sinks down at his hip instead. She leans in close and says, softly, “He is away a lot. He doesn’t treat me the way a man should treat a woman, the way a husband should treat a wife. He knows. I know. I won’t leave him, but I won’t sit and wait for something that won’t happen, either.”

Erik mimics her; leans towards her, lowers his voice. “You’ll warn me when he’s in town next, though, won’t you?”

“Let’s not talk of him anymore,” she says. She takes her dress off instead.

* * *

A sharp knock wakes him. He jerks upright to a near-dark apartment, the side-lamp left on to cast a dim glow on the furnishings, and his books, and Charles’ pale face on the other side of the window pane. He smiles hopefully and, when Erik doesn’t protest, slips his fingers into the gap and slides it open.

“Hello,” he says cheerfully, slipping over the window sill. “You don’t mind, do you? He’s been hammering on the door for forty minutes now, and I could make him go away, of course, but that just seems incredibly - _rude_.”

Erik, when he lifts his head a little, can indeed hear angry knocking downstairs. He isn’t sure slipping out the window to leave a visitor waiting in vain is any less rude, but he’s half-asleep and bleary-eyed and perhaps it is. He doesn’t know with Americans sometimes.

Charles takes his silence for assent, stumbling over to the table and sinking into the chair with a sigh. “Bless you, my friend.” He pats the armrests. “Your furniture may not look like much, but it’s certainly comfortable, isn’t it? Do you mind?” He liberates Erik’s whiskey from the metal debris on the table and pours it into the empty glass Emma left behind. “This is an excellent brand. I commend you on your fine taste. Is that why everything else is so shabby? Because you spend your hard-earned wage on Balvenie?”

“It was a gift,” Erik grits out.

Charles looks at him, quietly. His eyes are glassy with alcohol. Sitting there in his rumpled, expensive things, helping himself to other people’s belongings, Erik would have to lie if he claimed Charles had worked hard a single day in his life.

“From your lady guest.” It’s not a question. “I – noticed… she left. She didn’t see me come up here, I promise.”

Erik turns over with a groan. “If you’re that worried about my reputation, you could leave.”

“Do you want me to?” Charles asks.

And yes, Erik wants him to, but Charles sounds so vulnerable in that moment, so _young_ , that Erik keeps his mouth shut. Terrible reputation that he might have, he doesn’t _actually_ enjoy hurting other people.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Like you said, my lady guest has left already.”

“She’s very beautiful.” Charles says it quietly, like it’s a secret.

Erik grunts his assent.

"Does she know you're gay?"

Erik, very calmly, lifts his head off the pillow. "Who says I'm gay?"

Charles scoffs. “This is the Village,” he says. “The only people who live here are gays.”

Erik rolls his eyes and settles back into his pillows. “She’s satisfied enough to come back for more,” he says, folds his hands over his bare chest and closes his eyes.

“I see.” Charles is quiet for a moment, quiet enough that Erik no longer feels the urge to peek at him, succumbing to the tug of sleep instead. He jerks in surprise when the mattress dips with a sudden weight – no one has managed to sneak up on him like that in years.

“Shsh, shsh,” Charles whispers. “Just – lay there for a moment, will you? Don’t say anything.”

Confused and bleary, Erik does as he’s told. A moment later, Charles’ weight settles on his chest, his hair brushing against Erik’s bare shoulder. An arm settles across his torso, fingers curling against his side. It’s comforting, for all that it’s an unfamiliar sensation, and Erik lets it drag his eyes closed, drag him under.

When he wakes up again, Charles is already gone.

* * *

In an odd way, considering Erik spends most of his time at work and Charles spends most of his time at the bars, their schedules seem to line up after that. More often than not, Erik finds himself hauling Charles to his feet on his way to work, dragging him up from the chilly front steps and steering him into the stairwell, where he might pass out drunk on the stairs but at least he won’t catch pneumonia. When Erik drags himself home from work, feet slow and eyes burning, Charles will intercept him on the landing for a ‘good morning’-drink. They sit, bleary-eyed and half-asleep each in their own way, on Charles’ battered couch, with a mimosa for Charles and a whiskey for Erik, until some ever-changing gentleman of Charles’s comes to call and Erik forces himself up to his own place, to sleep. Charles always offers to take Erik along if they’re going out, and never seems to mind being told no.

“I know how tired you are,” he tells Erik once, while they’re waiting for some French-speaking beau to clomp up the stairs. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Considering the mostly-empty vodka bottle at his elbow, Erik isn’t sure Charles can feel much of anything, but he’s oddly touched, nonetheless.

* * *

When Erik’s foreman gets fired for drinking on the job, Erik dreads his replacement to be more of the same. Instead, he gets David, a tall, calm man with a Christian father and a Jewish mother, who doesn’t mind switching Erik’s day off to Saturday.

“ _Among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem_ ,” he says, when Erik thanks him. “We’ve been through enough.”

Erik can’t bring himself to reply, but something eases inside him after that. He isn’t an overly religious person, had thought he could stand working on the Shabbat, but he sleeps a lot better now that he does not.

Strangely, knowing there are people around who understand what he’s gone through makes him miss his family a little more than usual.

Erik's parents had spoken of going to New York, sometimes. Not seriously enough for it to ever become more than a vague idea in Erik's mind, but every once in a while after the '33 elections, they'd sigh over their dinners and say, "Maybe we _should_ go to New York."

And the other would reach over to pat their hand and say, "Maybe we should."

It's odd, living here now. He'd barely marked his arrival in the city at first, considering it merely another stop on the goose chase Shaw was unwittingly leading him on. But then he'd stayed, and now, sometimes, he looks over the rooftops at the rising dawn and thinks, _and now I have._ He likes New York, all told. It isn’t all he'd expected - dirty and gritty and full of people as lost and lonely as Erik, when he isn’t filled with a brightly blazing rage. Sometimes he looks out over the rooftops and wonders if Charles is lonely. If sometimes the boy sets his drink down and wonders at how his life has turned out, drunk and with a different man at his side every night. He never has the chance to ask, though, even if he had been so inclined. Charles, apparently quite over Jean-Paul, strikes up a courtship of sorts with another French-accented beau. “Remy,” Charles slurs, the time Erik trips over them necking in the hall. “Cajun, Erik. _Cajun_.” 

“I can be French for you, _Charles_ ,” Remy says.

Erik eases past them before they manage to make him nauseous. 

Once Remy is in the picture, Erik doesn’t catch more than glimpses of Charles for weeks. Instead, he strikes up a tentative companionship with Noriko. She likes Erik because he can appreciate the fine art of sitting and drinking tea for hours without saying a word. Erik likes her because she knows what it’s like to be a number behind a wire fence, and she knows what it’s like not to want to talk about it. They’re friendly with each other, and spend a considerable amount of time together, but Erik still doesn’t quite expect it when she knocks on his door one Saturday afternoon and hisses, in a frantic whisper, “There’s a naked man on the balcony.”

Erik promises her he’ll check, wondering if perhaps there is some sort of translation error on her end or his, before sending her back up to her loft to safety. He doesn’t need to arm himself, of course, but he lets all the metal in his rooms quiver to attention before easing open the window and slipping outside.

It’s Charles.

Of course it’s Charles, donning an open dress shirt and underwear, hanging cardigans up to dry on the fire escape. He grins up at Erik like he knew all along Erik was there, caught between damp fabrics hanging from his makeshift lines, the wind slapping the sleeves into his face.

“It’s good to know,” Erik says, “that if there’s ever an actual fire, we’ll all perish tripping over your laundry instead.”

Charles laughs and waves. “If there’s ever a fire, the ladder will bring you to ground so gently you’ll think you’re walking on a cloud, and you know it. Come have a drink with me later. Around five? Or six. No, six is better. I’ll be dressed by then. Although you could come by around five if you don’t mind the natural look.” He spreads his hands and cocks his hips, showing off his barely covered, slender body.

“I’ll be by at six,” Erik tells him before retreating back inside and closing his window as far as it would go.

* * *

Charles is dressed and raring to go at five to, climbing up the fire escape in his tux to make faces against the window pane. Seeing him, Erik decides to wear his one dinner jacket after all, and feels like a fool when Charles proceeds to drag him to _Logan’s_ instead of some fancy bar.

"It's got a bit of a reputation," Charles says, hesitating outside. "You don't mind, do you? Logan is very discreet, but people talk."

"It's fine," Erik assures him. "I've been here before."

"Oh, excellent." He hesitates. "You didn't try anything with Logan, did you? Because he's all women, all the time." He smacks his lips thoughtfully. "I'd say he doesn't know what he's missing, but he probably does."

Erik, recalling the way the man had looked at him like he might very much enjoy breaking Erik in half, certainly has no desire to try his luck.

"There might be someone else," Charles tacks on. "There's usually a wide range of types here - something for everyone, we always say. Or will your lady mind? I can't seem to get a decent read on her."

"It's fine," Erik says, pulling open the door before Charles can become too enthusiastic about the idea. The last thing he needs is to be set up with some young hopeful - charming and puppy-eyed; another Charles, only not as bright.

Charles, train of thought thankfully lost, bounds into the bar. Inside, he crows, "Logan!" and throws his arms open wide. "Logan, what a pleasure it is to see you, my friend."

"Chuck," Logan says, sounding reluctantly pleased. His eyes flicker to Erik. When Erik nods in greeting, he turns his attention back to Charles.

"Logan." Charles slides onto the nearest bar stool and lays his hands on the counter. "The man of the hour. An Irish coffee if you please, and whatever my dear friend Erik is having. And don't be shy on the liquor. We've a big day ahead of us."

"Night, you mean." But Logan obliges, pouring a generous shot. "You planning on sticking around?"

"I'm afraid not." Charles gulps down his drink and sighs. "Lovely. Beautiful. Marvelous. Erik, you're not having any?"

Erik orders a whiskey.

Charles takes two more shots. So fortified, he lays his hands on the countertop and swivels his head around. "Where is everybody?" he asks Logan. "I know it's early, but not even Darwin?"

"Cop raid at the _Genosha_ , last night," the man says, with a disgustedly curled lip. "Got everybody running scared. Too worried 'bout getting busted to drink tonight."

Charles waves him off. "They'll come to their senses by tomorrow," he says.

Logan looks fairly skeptical. Erik can understand that, considering the place had been busier when he'd come in at two in the afternoon. “And when the cops raid here?” Logan asks, reaching for a rag and running it over the gleaming, untouched taps. “How long will it take for them to come to their senses then?”

“They wouldn’t,” Charles says, with all the self-righteous conviction of a child.

Logan shakes his head. “Everybody knows _Genosha_ is where the gays go,” he says. “So of course they’ll start there. It’s only a matter of time until they come knocking on my door, too.”

“The people won’t stand for it.”

“The people are sheep,” Erik cuts in sharply. “They’ll huddle together and turn their eyes away and hope the wolf won’t bite them, and they think anyone who doesn’t stay with the herd deserves to be mauled, be they gays or mutants or – or Jewish.”

“They don’t-“ Charles cries, but Erik shakes his head.

“You’re old enough to know they do. Life is shit for everyone who isn’t – isn’t _normal_ , and it won’t get any better until we stop cowering. Won’t get better until gays stop marrying the other sex and having babies and _hiding_ , and won’t get better for us mutants until we stop pretending we’re like them. That we’re human.”

Charles gives him a hurt look. “We are human,” he says.

Erik scoffs and looks away.

Logan’s sigh draws his attention. It’s a surprisingly gentle sound, for such mean-looking man. “Face it, bub,” he tells Charles. “It doesn’t look good at the moment.”

Charles looks from one bleak expression to the other. "Things'll get better," he insists. "You'll see."

Logan shakes his head. "The laws have been getting worse."

Charles bites his lip, but he clearly has nothing to retort. Instead, he wilts. Erik, expecting some sort of platitude regarding nights and dawns and darkness, watches in amazement as Charles sinks down on his barstool like a balloon with a hole. On a man so exuberant, usually bursting with life, it is both odd and alarming.

Logan, looking similarly disconcerted, pours Charles another drink. "It might get better," he says. "I mean. It's not like we know the future."

Charles smiles weakly. “We make the future,” he says. “And some of our ideas are a little better than others.”

Erik exchanges a look with Logan. He isn’t an overly coddling man, but seeing his own blank bafflement reflected on the gruff man’s face makes him ask, hesitantly, “Is there anything that would make you feel better?”

“Oh, my friend.” Charles lays his forehead on the bar and reaches for Erik’s hand. “We shall drink all night, and _then_ , we shall go to Tiffany’s.”

* * *

And so, at ten fifteen in the morning, still drunk and squinting in the sunlight, Erik stares at the ornate doors.

“This makes you feel better,” he says doubtfully.

“Oh yes.” Charles waves impatiently from the doorway. “This is my favorite place in the world, and I’ll thank you not to force me to wait for you, gawking in the doorway like a buffoon.”

When Erik hurries to his side, Charles softens his words with a smile. “Come on,” he says. “Let me show you the most beautiful place in New York.”

And it is beautiful in a way. Beautiful the way Emma is beautiful, actually – untouchable and contemptuous, but desirable nonetheless. Counters upon counters of glimmering, glittering jewels, with immaculately styled clerks behind every one, as impeccable and tasteful as the wooden paneling on the walls. 

It is sterile and cold, elegant in an aloof sort of way. Erik isn’t sure how anyone could enjoy such a place, but Charles, seemingly reading his mind, smiles absently in his direction.

“I used to come here with my father, before he died," he says, trailing his fingers along the display cases. Erik believes it. Charles certainly looks the part, smooth and smartly dressed, moving like he's here every day. He looks like he belongs here. Erik, in contrast, feels like everyone can see on his face that he's never even been in the neighborhood. They make a strange pair; Erik the orphan, destitute and ashamed. Charles the orphan, glamorous and endearing. If they were children's stories, Charles would soon be adopted by a kindly older gentleman while Erik starved to death in a gutter.

Here, now, Charles bestows on the nearest sales clerk a dazzling smile. "We came here a lot," he tells him and Erik both. "My father was a romantic at heart, you see. He loved surprising my mother, and my mother had quite the penchant for Tiffany's. Add to that all the times there was some imagined slight he had to make up for, and suddenly we came here every other week."

Erik can't see any price tags, but from the look of the place, he would be lucky to shop here once in his entire lifetime.

"It's wonderful to see you back, sir," the clerk says.

"Quite." Charles leans in, smiling still, looking for all the world like he might chuck the man under the chin. "Erik, my friend, what do you say we have a little look around?"

"Sounds swell," Erik replies, wry.

Charles either doesn't notice his tone or doesn't care. With a shiny-teethed smile in the clerk's direction, he takes Erik's arm and leads him deeper into the maze of display tables. Everywhere they turn they are greeted with expectant smiles, with uniformed salesmen and -women hoping to entice them with velvet display boards of rings, of necklaces, of watches.

It’s the last that draws Charles’ attention. "How lovely!" He reaches for one of them without so much as a by-your-leave and lays it against Erik's wrist. The metal sings to Erik, but weakly at best - it's slathered in gems and sparkles, too much form and not enough function. Erik's fingers itch, and he balls them into loose fists while Charles exclaims over overpriced jewelry.

"Oh Erik, this one would look so handsome on you."

Erik, catching the looks the clerks cast at one another, leans in close to Charles’s ear and pitches his voice low. "Are you trying to cause a scene?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Erik, there won't be a scene," Charles says breezily, though there's a steep frown line forming between his brows. "With the amount of money I'm about to spend in here, no one would even dare breathe the word."

And he’s right. Charles coos over the jewelry and coos over Erik and coos over the jewelry on Erik for what feels like hours, and the most reaction they get are some pointed glances and someone looking uncomfortably away. No doubt she’ll be reprimanded by the manager once they leave, especially since when Charles finally decides on something, it’s not a watch or a ring but an entire chess set made of fine bone china. He smiles indulgently at the clerks’ wide eyes, thanks them politely for their time, and kindly inclines his head when Erik, still shell-shocked over the amount of money that just exchanged hands, holds open the door for him.

“Thank you, my friend,” he says serenely. “Be a dear and flag us down a cab, and then what do you say to some sustenance?”

“I’m surprised you still have money to spend,” Erik says before he can stop himself. It’s true, though. Charles may spend all night out at the clubs, but he lives in the same building as Erik does, after all – most of the time, he doesn’t act like he’s rolling in money.

“I always have money for the important things,” Charles says haughtily. He peers into traffic. “And good food is important.”

“So are thousand-dollar chess sets, it appears,” Erik says, less overwhelmed now and more dry.

“Erik, Erik, Erik,” Charles says. “My dear Erik. If it weren't for me, you'd never have any fun at all."

Erik wouldn’t consider spending absurd amounts of money on something he could get for eighty cents at a pawn shop ‘fun,’ exactly, but he dutifully takes the package while Charles hails a cab. Charles may not actually be travelling anywhere, but he certainly knows how to blow his money like a tourist.

* * *

After dinner and a couple of hours listening to Charles’s chatter in a hotel’s smoking lounge, it’s late enough for Erik to really need to think about heading to bed. He’s been awake for – he doesn’t even know how long now. A _long_ time. And yet, when Charles strips the expensive paper off their purchase and lifts the top off with a hopeful look, Erik takes the bottle of wine from the kitchen table and follows him out of the window, up the rickety ladder to the bit of balcony space outside Erik’s window.

They play a match, and then another. When Charles starts to complain about the lattices of the fire escape, Erik leans in through the window to fetch him the expensive throw Emma has nonchalantly forgotten there. Around the blue hour, when one of Charles' beaus comes to call, Charles shrugs and frowns down at the board until the man goes away. They're still playing when a fight breaks out down the street and when the distant church chimes midnight and when the milk man starts to make his rounds.

When dawn threatens to make an appearance, Erik stretches his chilled limbs. "Work," he says to Charles, regretfully.

"The bane of modern man." Charles gives him a wry smile. He tips his king, conceding defeat, and returns to petting Beast curled up in his lap. The cat had shown up around three with feathers still stuck to his muzzle, wailing like he hadn't fed in days. Rather than let him destroy the game in progress, Charles had lifted him onto his knees and petted him into submission.

Now, he shoos the monster away from him, wincing only a little when Beast uses full claws to climb down. "I'd ask you to skip," he says, "but you're far too conscientious to do a thing like that, aren't you, my friend." It's not a question.

Erik looks away. "Some of us have rent to pay."

"And not an enormous fortune to do it with. I understand."

Erik isn't sure that Charles does, not really, but that's not something he can be blamed for. Not if Erik is being fair. To spare himself a reply, he helps Charles sort the pieces into their velvet-lined box, closing the latch carefully, as if it hadn’t just spend an entire night sitting out on a rusty New York balcony. When he tries to hand it to Charles, the boy darts forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you, my friend,” he blurts, and rushes down the ladder before Erik has a chance to ask him what he’s thankful for.

* * *

Erik has to drag himself up the stairs that night. His feet hurt. His hands ache. His temples throb from the lack of sleep, and from using his powers all day to correct mistakes his sleep-clumsy fingers made. He spent his last few coins on a couple of bananas at the corner store, remembering they’re good for hangovers, and, after he’s taken off his coat and unbuttoned his shirt, forces himself to climb down the fire escape to knock on Charles’ window.

It’s open. The living room is in complete disarray. Books are scattered all over the couch and the floor. Curtains pulled down. The kitchen, when Erik goes to set his bananas down, is strewn with broken dishes and sticky from dried champagne. It looks like the aftermath of a brawl, or some _very_ enthusiastic lovemaking.

“Charles?” he calls.

“Yes?” comes the crabby reply.

Erik edges into the bedroom, his powers poised and ready, to find Charles wallowing on the bed next to a bowl of ice water, wringing out a rag. His eyes are bright red, like he’s been crying; his face is puffy and raw.

“What happened?” Erik says, sharp.

“Remy,” Charles replies.

Erik spins around, readying himself for a fight, like Remy might actually still be around – perhaps lurking behind the bathroom door to upset Charles some more.

“Did he hurt you?” he snarls.

Charles lies down on the bed and lays the cloth over his face. “No,” he says, voice dripping condescension. “We were celebrating.”

“Celebrating?”

“Yes, _celebrating_ , some of us do that sometimes.”

Erik frowns. “Celebrating what?”

Charles, huffing, waves a hand. Erik follows his gesture, taking in the moving boxes stacked against the wall, some still folded up, some filled haphazardly with picture frames and rolled up posters.

“Celebrating his new job as an interior decorator?” Erik asks. He sounds snide, but he’s annoyed now, too. He hates these guessing games. He’s earned the right to be concerned about Charles by now.

Charles takes the cloth from his eyes and props himself up onto his elbows. “Don’t be ridiculous. He’s leaving the States soon, and he asked me to come with him. To France. Not Paris, but it doesn't have to be Paris to be lovely, after all." He lays the cloth back over his eyes. "I started packing already, though there’s no date yet, or anything. But we promised each other.”

Erik waits for a while, but Charles doesn't elaborate. He doesn't seem to be waiting on Erik to say anything, either, just lays on the bed with half his face hidden, content to wallow in his hangover.

Well then. Erik straightens his shoulders, his back. He’s reminded suddenly of how much his head hurts, and how much he doesn’t want to be here.

"I'm going to bed."

"You could at least pretend to be happy for me," Charles snaps after him.

But no. Erik doesn't think he could.

* * *

Emma always slips out of bed shortly afterwards. She hasn’t yet cuddled up to him afterwards, which Erik is thankful for. He isn’t sure how he’d react if she tried. On silent feet, she carries one of Erik’s two chairs over to the mirror propped against the wall and tugs the side table next to it, creating a makeshift vanity. Watching her from the bed, Erik can’t see her face, just the long blonde hair cascading down her back. No doubt she arranged it that way.

When she shifts to pile her hair back onto the top of her head, the chair gives a squeak of protest. She retucks a coif of hair with a world-weary sigh. “I really could provide you with a place a little more – uptown.”

It’s tempting, the thought of being in Shaw’s apartment, eating his food, screwing his wife. But it wouldn’t work. Emma would work too hard to keep them separate, and if she ever failed, chances were high the coin would fall in Shaw’s favor. Erik doesn’t like being caught off-guard, and putting himself in Emma’s debt, he’s just setting himself up for it.

So he rolls his eyes pointedly, hoping she can see it when she slyly glances in the mirror. “And climb naked out the window when Shaw drops by? No, thank you.”

“He wouldn’t,” Emma says after a moment, without any heat.

Erik scoffs. He settles deeper in the sheets, watching the planes of her back move as she puts herself back together. She’s lithe and graceful, in bed and out of it. He knows she’s a beautiful woman. It’s just that her beauty doesn’t tempt him. It’s something he’d like to admire from across the room, be impressed by her poise and confidence, tell his female companions that no, of course they’re a million times more lovely than that ice queen, far more approachable, a daisy plucked from the sweet smelling grass far better than an untouchable ice flower promising death on the window pane. He wants to toast to her success, set her down on a shelf and think, in passing, _How wonderful I own that._

She’s nothing like Charles, though they’re both beautiful. Charles, Erik wants to touch. Wants to run his fingers through that disheveled hair first thing in the morning, straighten the rumpled collar on his expensive shirts, brush his cheek against that first fine hint of stubble. Whatever Charles does, Erik wants a part in it.

But Charles isn’t his. Emma is, in a way; a strange way where she leans in to kiss him goodnight, her hair falling forward to brush against his cheek. He doesn’t own her, but he has her in a way he suspects not many people do. She shows him things. Tells him things without ever wanting him to tell her he understands. He knows she’d stab him in the heart without hesitation, and yet he feels safe enough around her to settle into the pillows and close his eyes when she tells him to sleep.

* * *

He doesn’t speak to Charles for two solid weeks. For all that they live right on top of each other, it’s not hard to avoid Charles – when Erik leaves the house, Charles still hasn’t come home, and when Erik is home in the evenings, glaring at his sputtering stove, he can just hear Charles laughing with his ever-changing visitors. Once, Erik loiters around _Logan’s_ for an after-work drink and thinks he sees Charles about-face in the doorway, and once Charles comes home when Erik is on his way in and turns his head away. Erik expects both those times to be the last he ever sees of him, but Charles doesn’t leave. Remy comes by sometimes, but they neither run away together nor quarrel. He comes and he goes, blankly satisfied by things Erik has no part in.

And perhaps Erik would have been right – perhaps he would never have seen Charles again – if it hadn’t been for the new arrival a few days later. Erik doesn’t notice him until Emma comes by again, strangely agitated, glancing out the window time and time again.

“He’s not here because of me,” she says when Erik comes over to take a look, pointing out the giant of a man taking up the entire width of the steps of the house across the street. “I know he’s not, but still. What if he’s just hiding it well?”

“I’ll see what he wants.” Erik goes without listening to her protests. If Shaw’s having her tailed, it’s only a matter of time before he puts two and two together and comes up with a coin and a mother. Erik can’t let that happen. He’ll nip any private investigations in the bud, if he has to.

* * *

The man is still there when Erik steps out into the stale New York air. Coming closer, he’s not much older than Erik or Charles, his round cheeks and spare stubble belying his size. He tenses when he notices Erik heading towards him; not so much fear, Erik thinks, but readying himself for a fight.

Erik makes sure to show his teeth when he leans against the tiny fence in front of the house. “Someone you’re waiting on?” he says.

The man eases up a little at that. "I am," he said, a bit of coarseness under his careful words. "I'm looking for Francis. Charles Xavier - I was told he lives here."

Erik flicks his eyes down and up. "Jilted lover, are you?" He looks too beefy to be Charles' usual type - Charles doesn’t discriminate very much in terms of appearance, but in general his suitors are lean and charming, and this man is neither of the two.

"No!" The man's lips curl in disgust. “Fuck no.”

Erik can’t tell if it was true repulsion or simply denial, and he doesn’t very much care. "Whatever. He lives across the street, as you seem to be aware. Either talk to him or get out. You're scaring the neighborhood."

Anger flares in the giant's eyes. Eric is reluctantly impressed when, instead of throwing his fists around, he takes a deep breath and says, attempting to sound meek, "I'm not sure how to approach him. I'm – we’re family, you see. There's a family matter he need to know about, and I haven't spoken to him in a year."

Erik considers him. He can understand that reluctance - if he saw his parents now, he couldn't be certain he'd know what to say to them. But he _would_ want to see them, to hear from them, to relish in their voices, the touch of their callused hands. And if this man wants to make things right between him and Charles, then he deserves that chance. _Charles_ deserves that chance.

Erik rights himself abruptly. He gestures sharply for the man to follow him and strides across the street, into the house and up the stairs. He isn’t sure Charles will be awake when he knocks, but he is, gazing at Erik blearily, a dressing gown thrown over his trousers and undershirt. "Erik," he says, sleepily delighted. "Do you want to come in? Remy left me some Parisian pralines. There's a lot of alcohol, believe me, my friend - a lot. I think I'm hung over."

Frowning, Erik looks over his shoulder. His visitor isn't behind him – he’s hesitated in the stairwell, out of sight of Charles's unfocused eyes. So Erik frowns and says, "There's someone here for you, Charles Francis."

He expects Charles to recoil, or perhaps to laugh too loudly and play ignorant. He doesn't expect Charles to give a yelp of surprise and push past him into the stairwell. He bears down on Cain with hardly any hesitation, seizing him by the lapels and pushing himself into as much of an eye-to-eye perspective as he can, considering the height difference.

"You have news from Raven?"

The question is breathless, hopeful and yet braced for disappointment. His face twists in the latter a moment later, when Cain frees himself and shakes his head. "This isn't about her," he says. "But of course you'd still be hung up on her."

"Hung up on my little sister that could be dead for all I know? I don't know why I'm surprised that you're surprised." Charles takes a step back, face closing off. "I assume you'll want to come inside, now that you've come these many, many miles. Erik, drink?"

Erik follows out of curiosity more than any need for alcohol. He sits on the threadbare sofa while Charles busies himself with their glasses, enjoying the uncomfortable way Cain hovers in the doorway.

"Sit," Charles says sternly, returning with his hands tight around a triangle of whiskey tumblers. He kneels by the couch table and hands one off to Erik. Another he hands to the visitor once he's obeyed the order. The largest one he swallows in one exasperated gulp before he returns to the kitchen for more. This time, he brings the bottle with him, cradling it in the crook of his elbow like one might a child.

"Now then," he says, standing over them like a disapproving father. "What can I do for you, brother dear?"

Erik has to admit to gaping a little. He stares, unabashed, at Cain; the sheer _size_ of him. He has a square jaw to Charles’ fine features, a mess of hair slicked into submission at odds with the fine strands curling behind Charles’ ears, shoulders heavyset and broad and almost twice as wide as the other man’s. Erik has never seen an unlikelier pair of brothers, and both of them look equally uncomfortable at Charles's words. Certainly Charles seems to need to wash away the aftertaste with another large helping of whiskey.

"Well," Cain says. Then, desperate, he takes a sip himself.

"Drink," Charles commands Erik.

Under Charles’ watchful eyes, Erik drinks. He doesn’t gulp down the one Charles pours him right after, but Charles doesn’t seem to want him to. Satisfied that they’re now all sufficiently inebriated, he turns to Cain.

“So.” He narrows his eyes. “Since this isn’t about Raven, how about you make it quick? I’m sure we all have better things to do on this fine day.”

Cain scoffs. “’Fine day,’ do you ever sound like you’re not at prep school?”

“This isn’t ‘making it quick.’”

Cain glares up at Charles. It’s not much of a height difference, despite Charles still being on his feet, so Erik understands why Charles chose to stand.

“Fine,” Cain says, after a terse moment. “We need money for repairs.”

“Repairs,” Charles repeats without inflection.

“It’s a big house,” Cain says. “Things break.”

Charles tilts his head to the side. “You break things.”

His brother flushes angrily. “Who cares how they broke. They broke. We need to fix them.”

Charles plucks Erik’s glass from his unresisting hand and takes a sip. “I’ve washed my hands of that. Do what you will with Westchester. I’m quite happy down here.”

“Oh, yes?” Cain sneers. “And what’s so great about your life now? Getting plastered and taking it up the ass from whoever will have you, you could have that in Westchester any day of the week.”

“Well, for starters, it doesn’t have _you_ in it.” Erik has never heard Charles sound so snide. “Then there’s no Mr. Marko, and none of that wreck you turned Mother into, and there’s no one pretending to care while they try to get their grubby little hands on my money, which you will not see a cent of, Cain, not now and not ever.”

His brother – ‘brother,’ Erik figures, because there is neither genetics nor affection justifying the word here – bares his teeth. “We’ll just see about that.”

Charles smiles unattractively. “Trust me, with the amount of money I have at my disposal, I can afford the very best lawyer New York has to offer, and buy off any second-rate one you happen to have on retainer.”

Cain flushes an angry red. "This isn't over," he growls.

"Oh yes, it is." Charles flings a dramatic hand at the door. "It's over, and you're leaving. You can come calling when Raven returns, and not a day before."

Cain growls again. The expression on his face can’t be construed as anything but threatening. Erik stays silent, but he can feel all the metal in the room begin to sing, vibrating with the need to do his bidding. The cutlery in the drawer, the wiring in the walls, the nails in Cain's shoes all straining towards him, ready to turn at the slightest twitch of his fingers.

He casts a quick look from Cain to Charles, ready to spring into action, but Charles... Charles doesn’t look like he needs saving. There’s anger on his face, an expression foreign to Erik, and a more familiar hint of righteous indignation. Charles leans down until he and Cain are almost nose to nose, and pitches his voice low and angry.

"Leave this apartment," he says insistently. "Do not return."

Cain sits frozen. Erik can understand that. Charles tends to be pompous and a little immature most of the time, and seeing him this calm, this certain, is impressive. Frightening, almost - even though the words aren't aimed at him, Erik can feel the need to obey burning in his thighs.

Charles draws back and twitches his fingers, looking almost tired suddenly. As though released from a spell, Cain stands and heads for the door. His forehead is creased, either in concentration or bewilderment, but he doesn’t stop and he doesn’t hesitate, stepping out of the apartment and pulling the door closed quietly behind him.

Charles doesn’t move. He waits with his head cocked, listening perhaps for some sound to occur down in the street. Then, abruptly, he slumps, deflating from that scary, intimidating stranger back into the Charles Erik knows.

“Would you mind terribly doing me a favor, my friend?” he asks.

Dumbly, Erik nods.

Charles brightens a little. “Would you run down to the liquor store and buy some whiskey? I’ll reimburse you. I’d just like to avoid the younger Mr. Marko for a little while right now.”

And compose himself in private, Erik suspects. He nods his agreement and heads for the door while Charles sprawls out on the couch.

“And there’s nothing wrong with taking it up the ass,” Erik can hear him grumble.

* * *

Cain is back again the following day. He tries to act casual, no doubt, but there are only so many ways to be inconspicuous at that size. But for all that he waits, loitering around leaning against trees, reading – looking at – newspapers and unsettling the neighbors, he doesn’t particularly seem to want to talk to Charles. Certainly Charles breezes in and out of his apartment without ever looking like he had another altercation, and once, when he’s disentangling Beast from his curtains, Erik actually watches him stroll past Cain at a leisurely pace. Cain doesn’t react. If Erik could believe it, he’d say Cain hadn’t even _noticed_ Charles.

Charles, however, seems rattled enough by Cain’s continued presence that he climbs up the fire escape one night, clinging to Beast, and paces Erik’s small bit of open space while Erik watches from his seat on the bed.

“Raven’s my little sister,” Charles says tightly. “Adopted. She isn’t set to inherit anything, so there was never a reason for them to treat her decently. Or even pretend to.”

Erik hums noncommittally.

“She ran away, after a while. Without so much as a _goodbye_.” He gestures sharply, making the cat yowl. “I know why she ran away, but she could have at least told me goodbye.”

He turns approval-seeking eyes on Erik. There’s a sort of grand air about him, usually, a cloud of aloofness and good breeding, but right then he looks nothing but a hurt child. Erik stares back at him. No doubt Charles is upset, but Raven’s likely still out there somewhere. Erik never had a chance at goodbye, either, and he’s never going to.

“I shouldn’t have said what I did about my mother,” Charles says eventually. “She deserves better from me.” He hesitates, blowing out a deep breath. “They do that,” he says. “They bring out the worst in people.”

Erik shakes his head. “No one can bring out the worst in you.”

“Something brought out the worst in whoever did that,” Charles says, gesturing vaguely towards Erik’s face.

“Ah.” Ruefully, Erik touches the mark on his cheek. Emma might look delicate, but she’s as strong as any man. “My lady guest wasn’t too pleased with being abandoned for your familial woes.”

Charles’s eyes grow dark. “She’d better not show her face around here again. I don’t care how pretty she is.”

“Charles, it’s fine.” Erik reaches for his hand and tugs a reluctant Charles down to sit beside him. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

Sighing, Charles lets his head drop against Erik’s shoulder. “I know,” he says. “I just don’t think you should have to.”

* * *

After Cain's visit, Erik takes to spending even more time than usual at Charles' apartment, drinking alcohol of varying quality and lounging on Charles's eclectic furniture. Charles doesn’t seem to mind, just opens the door whenever Erik knocks and lists the drink choices available. Sometimes he has Remy over, but Erik can tolerate him for the most part, and pretends he doesn’t mind.

But they’re alone, now, and Charles stands with his back to Erik, looking out the window and sighing.

"What is it?"

Charles casts a look over his shoulder. "Cain," he says. "He won't leave. I don't know how to be any more - persuasive, without resorting to violence, but I want him gone."

Erik considers him, his slumped shoulders and the rings under his eyes, and pushes himself upright.

“Wait here,” he says.

"Erik..."

"Trust me," Erik says on his way out the door.

"Don't hurt him," Charles calls after him, but Erik is fairly sure he heard a bit of thrill right alongside the concern.

It’s warm out, but not too hot - perfect weather for lounging around not going away. Erik, abandoning all pretense, makes straight for Cain. The man is leaning against a lamp post, not looking as uncomfortable as he should be, and certainly not as uncomfortable as Erik wants him to be.

When Cain catches sight of him, his expression twists into something halfway between smugness and hope. He's tried to talk to Erik a few times when Erik was on his way home, but Erik ignored him every time. Now, he gets right in his face.

"Charles wants you to go," he says.

"And I want to talk to Charles some more. " Cain sneers at him. "Looks like neither of us are getting what we want."

Erik shakes his head. He’s tired of this overgrown lump of a human being terrorizing Charles like that. "You said you wanted to talk to Charles, and you did. Now get out."

Cain scoffs. "Or you'll do what?"

"Or I'll make your life a living hell," Erik says kindly. Before Cain has time to do more than gape at him, eyes wide and disbelieving, the street lamp he’s leaning against gives way, moving sharply away from him and then curling to twist around his neck. The loop of metal isn't tight enough to be more than felt, certainly not any real danger to Cain, but the giant doesn’t know that. Erik relishes in his strained grunts for a moment, watches him twist and writhe and claw at the cool metal around his throat.

Then, he leans in close and shows Cain all his teeth. "And then I'll end it."

He takes in the man's wide eyes, the sweat on his forehead, his frantic movements. Then he turns and goes back indoors. It isn't until he's closed Charles’ apartment door behind him that he sends the lamp post back into position with a wave of his hand, the metal uncurling and straightening and snapping back into place as if nothing had ever happened.

* * *

Erik descends the fire escape ladder at a half-jog, whistling. Charles has been in an extraordinarily good mood after Cain’s disappearance, and it’s infectious. Not even knowing that Remy has been coming by again more regularly can make Erik frown right now.

Still, the happy tune dies on his lips when he sticks his head through the open window past Charles’s curtains. There’s a disconcerting order to the chaos that usually reigns: the mountains of books stacked into orderly piles, shoes lined up in long rows, shirts, jackets and slacks thrown over the back of the sofa in separate jumbles. Charles sits on the sofa with his legs tucked under himself like some oriental king, a harem of books and papers and letters spread across his lap.

For a moment, Erik stands frozen at the window, taking in the tableau. Beast hops up onto the window sill, greeting him with a disconcerted whine and startling him into taking a sharp breath, but despite that, Erik doesn’t think Charles has noticed him until Charles says, without looking up from his papers, "Pass me those shoes, would you, my friend?"

There are a pair of alligator skin oxfords sitting on the radiator. Erik hands them over. Charles leans over the back of the couch to place them neatly at the very end of the row of shoes, an action so incongruous to Charles’s usual carefree mess that Erik finally manages to ask, “What are you doing?”

Charles casts a look at the chaos surrounding him. “Leaving, I suppose.”

“With Cain?”

The most Charles seems able to muster at Erik’s snarl is wry amusement. “Good Heavens, Erik. Now that you’ve finally scared him off? No, with Remy. Remember? If nothing else, Cain’s visit _has_ reminded me that New York is not very far at all from Westchester, though it feels like a different world. Having Cain here was bad enough. Imagine my stepfather.”

He shudders delicately. Erik doesn’t know his stepfather, but he knows that kind of full-body disgust. It’s similar to the kind of full-body dread Erik feels at the thought of Charles leaving him.

* * *

“Someone’s angry today,” Emma says, touching at the bruises on her arms.

“I’m sorry,” Erik grits out.

Emma’s eyes say she doesn’t believe him, but her tone is light and airy when she says, “You should be. No doubt my husband will want me to come up with a convincing lie.”

Erik freezes in buttoning up his trousers. “He’s here?” he says.

“Oh, don’t be scared,” Emma scoffs. “There’s a soiree he’s hosting down in the harbor. He won’t be looking for any lovers of mine tonight.”

“Perhaps he should be, if you’re coming to see me while he’s in town.”

“Get off your high horse, Darling.” She turns away from him and lifts up her hair. Obediently, he slides up the zipper. “He’s busy, and I told you he knows. As long as I’m there, dressed and ready to go when the clock strikes 9, I’ll be wife of the year in his book.”

Erik closes his eyes for a moment, clenches and unclenches his hands. Takes a breath. Turns her by the shoulders and leans in to kiss her. “Perhaps I should come by then,” he whispers. “ _I_ would certainly appreciate you in a beautiful dress.”

“More than he does, I’ve no doubt.” Emma smiles, showing her teeth. “And all _you_ need to do is slip past security, procure something decent to wear, and convince everyone down at Red Hook Terminal that you know the difference between sabayon and solybubbe.”

“Hm.” Erik forces a chuckle. “Perhaps I’ll stay in tonight after all.”

“Look for me in the society pages.” She tucks her purse under her arm. “No doubt there’ll be some chit wailing over the cut of my dress.”

Erik reaches out to squeeze her shoulder; she twists away so it is barely more than a pat.

“She’s just jealous she could never pull it off the way you do.”

“Oh, I know.” With a satisfied smile, Emma leaves, brushing past him out the door with a breezy, “Be good.”

“Oh,” Erik sneers. “I will.”

* * *

Erik leaves the suit hanging in the closet, that night. Despite Emma's words, he has no desire to sneak into Shaw's little get-together - to pass himself off as something he isn’t. There'll be no pandering to Shaw's whims in a fancy suit tonight.

Instead, he reaches for black slacks and a turtleneck - neutral and easily faded into a crowd, particularly in New York. Hard to spot in the dark. He leaves his apartment when the sun has already set. Guests will already be arriving at Shaw's shindig. Shaw will be letting them fawn over him with a sleazy grin and Emma on his arm. In a few hours, the only one to smile at him will be the grim reaper.

Erik keeps his steps quiet on the stairs, but Charles's door opens when he passes, regardless.

"Erik," he says. His voice is shaky. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Not right now." Erik doesn’t look at him, tries to push past him but Charles gets in his way.

"Right now. Erik, please. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

When Erik growls, Charles wraps both hands around his arm. "Vitally important. Erik. Please."

Erik wishes he'd never seen those eyes. "One minute," he says, even as he allows Charles to drag him inside. He even lets the boy push him down onto the sofa with minimal resistance.

Charles sinks down in the chair across from him, eyes wide. "You can't do it, Erik," he says.

Erik looks at him blankly. "Do what?"

"Kill Shaw. Please, Erik. You can't."

Erik's frown grows steeper. "Have you been listening at my window again?"

"Only metaphorically." Charles leans forward to take both of Erik's hands in his. "My friend. I implore you. Don't let him govern your life any longer."

Erik tugs his hands away. “What do you think I’m trying to do?”

Charles shakes his head sadly. “It’s in the past, Erik,” he says. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

“He killed my mother,” Erik replies. He lays a hand over his heart. “Tell me, when exactly do you think that ache will go away?”

“It doesn’t,” Charles says quietly. “Erik, I _know_ , alright? I know.”

Erik sneers. "Then you should know already that there has to be recompense. Blood demands blood, Charles. Don't tell me you don't know that."

"I _don’t_ know that!" Charles cries. "No one else has to die, Erik, please believe me. You can end this. Tonight."

Erik leans forward. He is calm now, so calm. "Even if I don't go tonight, my dear Charles, Shaw will keep shedding blood. _Innocent_ blood. He won't ever stop, Charles. But I _can_ end it. Tonight. And I will.”

Charles sobs in a breath. "And when your mother told you her dreams of a peaceful world, with all religions living amicably side by side, do you think _this_ is what she meant?"

Erik grows very, very still. "There is no possible way for you to know that."

"Yes, there is." Charles rubs at his eyes. "I'm a telepath, Erik. I read minds.”

"You're a telepath." Erik's voice sounds hollow in his ears.

“Yes.” Charles swallows, but doesn’t look away.

When Erik stares at him, he chokes on a harsh laugh. "I know every time Emma comes over, and that you think about wringing Shaw's neck the entire time you're with her, and everything that happened during World War 2, and what you think of me. And trust me, some of that I _really_ didn't want to know, but I can't help it." He fixes Erik with an earnest look. "I never went digging through your head, my friend. I promise."

And it makes sense, in a way. Naively, Erik had always presumed Charles had no powers at all. That he simply extended his openness to unnatural things from one to another, and was, perhaps, so fascinated with Erik's powers because he craved some of his own.

Erik had assumed that, with all the time they've spent together, any power of Charles's would have revealed itself by now. But it wouldn't have, would it, if he could control minds? Perhaps he'd made sure that Erik wouldn't notice. Perhaps he _had_ noticed, and Charles had conveniently ensured that Erik wouldn't remember to tell the tale.

Charles is still looking at him, earnest and a little sad.

Erik looks away. "You never told me," he says.

Charles shakes his head. "I was afraid to," he pleads. "I was worried that, if you were to know what I could do, that you wouldn't trust me anymore."

Erik scoffs a laugh. "Well, you've told me now, I suppose." He glances at the stuttering clock above the stove. "And I believe your one minute is up. Goodnight, Charles." Ignoring Charles's dismayed look, he rises and heads for the door. He doesn't expect to make it – expects some invisible voice to hold him back, to stay his hand, to move his feet for him the way it had, he now realizes, Cain's. But it doesn’t. The door opens with the slightest turn of his hand, his powers easing the way past a slightly fussy knob. He hesitates then, looked back. Charles is seated, still, head bowed over his hands.

“You’re right, you know.”

The hope in his expression when Charles lifts his head is painful to see. Erik tightens his mouth. “I _don’t_ trust you anymore.”

Erik doesn’t wait for Charles's face to fall. He slips into the dark stairwell instead, forcing the entire encounter out of his mind. It’s Shaw who ought to be on his mind right now.

* * *

The harbor is mostly dark at night. High beams burn bright all night, lighting up half-assembled ships and unloaded shipping crates, but there are more than enough dark corners to hide in, black corridors to ease an uninvited visitor's way. The metal walls of the nearest storage containers happily provide a staircase for him to stroll to the top, and then they disappear as if he had never even been there at all.

Slowly, keeping ducked low on the slanted roof, Erik follows the sound of soft music and tasteful laughter. He’s thankful for Emma's warning of security, but it wasn’t necessary. Privately, he’s a little surprised Shaw hired such goons to guard the perimeter - surely his little garden party would have benefited from some actual protection? As it is, a sharp tug on the weapons strapped to their belts and they’re defenseless, then unconscious. Erik twists their guns into handcuffs and leaves them stranded where they lie. Someone will find them in the morning.

Erik edges forward on the roof.

As much as it pains him to admit it, Shaw has actually managed to pull off his dockyard garden party. Erik hadn’t wanted to believe it, but the scenery is almost – tasteful. Strips of grass have been laid out in front of a hangar, the small tables and chairs lit up with brilliant lights a sharp contrast to the rough metal providing the backdrop. Erik finds himself thinking, in the midst of it all, that Charles would have liked it.

Towards the back of the prepared area, there is a speaker’s podium. Erik narrows his eyes. He can’t see Shaw anywhere. No doubt there will be some sort of grand entrance for Shaw to celebrate himself, and perhaps even acknowledge the woman at his side.

He doesn’t have very long to wait. Half an hour or so passes. Then the hangar doors slide open with a deafening screech, and when the party guests have recovered, Shaw has strolled out amidst a layer of theatrical smoke, laughing and applauding himself while Emma smirks prettily at his side.

Shaw takes the podium to tittering and polite applause. Erik doesn’t know what he wants to announce and he doesn’t care. Shaw is in his reach for the first time in fifteen years, and he is done wasting time.

The dockyards are paradise for someone with power over metal – metal cranes, metal crates, metal carts. Reaching out with his gift, Erik finds a tug boat small enough for him to comfortably lift. With only the barest whisper of water slapping against the bow, he lifts it from the water. It floats silently under cover of darkness, closer to the party, closer to the podium, closer to Shaw.

 _Erik_.

He scowls, shakes himself. Shaw is right there, and yet he can’t concentrate on the man. There’s growing inside him a sense of urgency, like a twist in his gut. It returns when he shakes it off, growing stronger and stronger until he can barely breathe, can’t think, can only just keep the tug boat in the air through sheer power of will.

_Erik, please._

Then, like a flood of images, washed out and gone before he can properly make sense of them: Charles, _Logan’s_ , sirens and screams. Fear, creeping up his throat and into his nostrils, suffocating him, choking him alive.

Erik gasps sharply, and the flood of images is gone. The fear is gone. The dread is gone. There is only Erik, and Shaw, and the tug boat, and a mere handful of yards between him and what he’s spent the last twenty years trying to achieve.

And Charles needs him. Charles _needs_ him.

He hurls the tugger towards Shaw.

It falls short, the distance too great even for Erik’s well-practiced gift. Instead of smashing his enemy to pieces, it crashes onto the concrete a good twenty feet from the closest socialite, who screams regardless. Men and women shout in alarm. Up on the podium, Shaw squints into the darkness, body tense and wary.

Erik doesn't stay to watch the carnage. Let Shaw prowl the shadows looking for the man whose childhood he stole. Erik is needed elsewhere.

* * *

There are squad cars barricading the street in front of Logan's bar. Erik stays at the back of the whispering crowd despite the anger curling his hands into fists. "Queers," someone near him mutters. "Mutants."

Erik forces himself to be still, silent, until he can see Charles, arguing quietly but not patiently with a beefy policeman twice his size. The fact that he’s handcuffed and held far too tightly by another police woman equally as large doesn’t seem to bother him very much. His calm fades, though, when more police drag past a tiny woman with bright green hair to match the scales on her shoulders, and force her roughly into the back of a squad car.

“Careful,” he snaps. “She hasn’t even done anything. She works there, that’s all – that’s hardly illegal, and you know it.”

“Watch your mouth,” the woman officer says, bored.

“You’re here to enforce the law, not break it,” Charles says sharply.

The other officer yanks equally as sharply at his cuffed arm. “You wanna get charged with resisting arrest, too, queer?”

Erik doesn’t wait any longer. With a twist of his hands, he shatters the street lamps, the sockets in the brightly lit apartments. The surprised shouts in the darkness cover the sounds of handcuffs coming undone, car doors popping open, firearms jamming. Batons melt into their holders. Keys twist into unrecognizable shapes. In the chaos, no one notices a few brightly colored individuals slipping off into alleys and doorways, climbing out of police cars and sliding free of handcuffs. Someone brushes past Erik in an almost grateful manner, and then Charles is there, reaching for his hand and tugging him off into the darkness without ever breaking his stride.

Fingers curled tightly together, they run. Erik doesn’t know where – he’s too angry to concentrate on much, and where usually all his senses would be focused on getting out and getting to safety, now they’re entirely on Charles – on his sharp breathing, the sound of his expensive shoes against the pavement, his sweaty palm pressed against Erik’s own. Erik doesn’t know where they are until Charles urges him up a fire escape and Erik recognizes the back of their building, with Erik’s rooms all dark and Beast clawing at Charles’ window.

Erik darts watchful looks while Charles scrambles onto a dumpster to pull down the ladder of the fire escape, and while they climb. His heart is still beating double-time when they’ve settled in Charles’ apartment, Beast mollified into lying on the sofa next to Erik with a can of tuna and permission to claw at Charles’ arms. Erik pets him idly between the ears while Charles pushes aside a stack of unopened mail to make room on the table.

"Wine?" He pours for them both without waiting for Erik's reply, but he doesn’t drink any of it. Instead, he gently fingers the rim of his glass, staring into the dark liquid with singular fascination.

"Are you alright?" Erik asks finally.

Charles jerks at his words. "Ah, yes." His smile is brittle, but brightening with every moment. "Thanks to you."

"And no thanks to those humans you're so fond of."

Charles sighs, but doesn’t tell Erik not to start that particular argument up again. "They were doing their jobs, Erik."

"Arresting peaceful citizens is their job?" Erik laughs harshly. "You'll forgive anyone anything, won't you?"

"No." Charles's smile has bite. "But policemen following orders, that I will forgive."

Erik doesn’t bother pointing out what he thinks of people following orders. No doubt Charles already knows.

"They arrested you, Charles," he says instead. "For having a beer."

Charles looks away. "They're scared because they don't understand."

"They will never understand, Charles."

Charles still won't look at him, but there's a wry smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "They will."

They won’t, and some day Charles will finally understand that, and yet Erik finds himself hoping he never will. The world needs realists – cynics, maybe. And yet, perhaps the world also needs a little bit of Charles’ hopeless enthusiasm.

Erik deflates with a sigh. "You're incapable of learning, aren't you?"

Over his shoulder, Charles gives him a wry smile. "I suppose I am. But admit it – it’s one of those things that shouldn’t be endearing, and yet it so very much is.” With a sigh, he cups his hand against Erik’s cheek. His hand is warm, burning hot against Erik’s skin. “You need to have a little more faith, my friend.”

Huffing, Erik turns his head away. “And you need to have a little less.”

Charles laughs. “We all have our burdens to bear.” He ducks his head a little. “And rescuing me is apparently your burden, now.”

"You didn't need me to save you," Erik says quietly. "You could have taken them on your own." "You overestimate me," Charles replies, equally soft. "I can't manipulate an entire mob." "Yes, you can." Erik keeps watchful eyes on him. "You don't need me." 

Charles shrugs, charmingly caught. "Maybe I did," he says. “Need you. Perhaps I need saving more than anyone.”

Erik doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t reply. After a moment, Charles starts sorting through his mail, and Erik, with one hand on Beast’s back, stares out the window instead.

* * *

That night, Erik wakes from an uneasy half-slumber to scraping and clanging coming from the apartment below him. When he steals down the metal steps, dressing gown wrapped around him and powers at the ready, it’s to find Charles’s place in even worse disarray, kitchen cabinets wide open, bookshelf emptied, and Charles in the middle of it all, cramming his tuxedo into an overflowing trunk. He has to push Beast aside several times, intent as he is on pulling threads in the expensive black fabric, until the cat finally gives up and retreats to Erik’s perch at the window, hissing angrily.

Charles sighs. "I suppose you'll want to know where I'm going."

Erik swallows. "Remy," he says. “You’re going to Paris with Remy.”

The name makes Charles laugh, a little. “Ah, no,” he says. “It seems good old Remy took the chaos during the arrests at _Logan’s_ as an opportunity to escape lengthy goodbyes.” He smiles like it doesn’t matter, but there’s an ache in his eyes that has Erik holding back a snide remark.

“So you’re not going to Paris?” Erik asks, hope blossoming in his chest despite the second suitcase waiting by the door.

But Charles, smiling sadly like he knows exactly what Erik is thinking, just shakes his head. “England,” he says. "I've an invitation to attend Oxford." Of course he does. Erik doesn't know why he's surprised.

Charles waves his hand at the scattered mess around him. "It's probably under the bed- I haven't seen it in a while, but I wouldn't throw it out, I don't think. But that doesn't matter. I called them tonight, and they said they'd love to have me, still. My flight leaves on Saturday."

There’s probably something for Erik to say, here; something glib and light-hearted, or maybe even a sincere offer to help him pack, and perhaps to spend the night together in Charles’ lavish bed in some sort of romantic gesture that only seems grand and painless in the movies.

But Erik isn’t that person. Quietly, silently, he withdraws from the window and disappears.

* * *

Vaguely, Erik thinks he ought to be making the most of Charles’ remaining time. It’s only a few short days until Saturday, after all, and all of those Erik has to work. But he can’t. He doesn’t know how to let Charles go. He keeps his distance, and Charles stays away.

Sometimes Erik hears his door go, or catches sight of the back of his head disappearing down the street, but Charles stays clear, and Erik watches the days fade away on his wall calendar and doesn’t know what to do. There are so many things he wants to say to Charles, but he knows none of them would come out right, so he stays in his rooms and says nothing at all.

He oversleeps on Thursday, waking up to bright light shining through his half-open window. Erik allows himself a motionless moment before he has to spring out of bed and start panicking. If Charles is that powerful a telepath – and there is still a sour taste in Erik’s mouth at the thought – then he’ll already know everything that’s going through Erik’s mind. He’ll know how much Erik will miss him.

 _I don’t want you to go,_ he thinks, and then curls onto his side and pretends he hasn’t. It doesn’t matter anyway. With the sun this high in the sky, Charles will be fast asleep.

* * *

It’s not until Friday, late, when the sky outside is already darkening and all the shops have boarded up their windows, that Charles even tries. Erik, when he hears the knock on the door, looks up from the food he’s been preparing for the next day. He hears the knock clearly, and he hears Charles call for him, but he doesn’t answer. When he hears Charles’ footsteps heading back down the stairs, he tells himself it’s for the best.

* * *

Saturday morning, Erik lays in bed and stares out the window. It’s bright out. He doesn’t know what time it is and he doesn’t know what time Charles leaves, but the thought that Charles might have already left this place, left America, is altogether too horrible to contemplate.

To distract himself, he picks up, once again, the paper on the nightstand. Half the local section is about the arrests. In the society pages, there’s an article on Shaw’s interrupted soiree, on the mysterious tugger crashing down on the pavement through no explainable means and what that might say about Shaw and his many powerful enemies. Erik isn’t sure he’s one of them, but looking at the photograph of a flustered-but-hiding-it Shaw, he hopes Shaw never feels safe again.

Down in the street, a car door slams. Erik is out of bed and at the window before he can talk himself out of it. There’s a cab, speeding down the street. The window jams for long, heart-stopping seconds before he can wrench it open. The fire escape jangles when he drops his weight on it, and when he hurls himself down the stairs, catching himself painfully with one hand against the window frame below.

The flat is empty. Some of the furniture is still there; the ratty sofa pushed up against the wall with the kitchen table and a chair, but everything else is gone. The posters on the wall, the vase in the window, the books – all gone.

Erik takes a deep breath, lets it out again. His insides are icy cold. He’s missed his chance. He’s made his choice – now he just has to live with it. He curls his hands into fists, bangs them against the window, makes the glass rattle under his touch.

Charles peeks his head out of his bedroom.

Erik feels a jolt of something from his head all the way to his toes, leaving him shaky and confused even as Charles, dressed in sensible travelling clothes with a scarf wrapped around his neck, rushes across the room to open the window.

For a moment, Charles stares at him, eyes wide. Then, a tiny, hopeful smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You came.”

The metal is cold against Erik’s bare feet, cold but welcoming, and he draws strength from its proximity when he looks Charles in the eye.

“I wasn’t sure I’d see you,” Charles says, looking more like a child of eighteen than ever. He looks a little frightened, and overwhelmed, like a little lost boy going all the way across the ocean by himself. Erik knows what that feels like, although he’s sure he never looked this vulnerable. On the steamer he first took to cross the Atlantic, his cabin mates whispered about how scary he was. They nudged each other and flicked their eyes at the tall German who never smiled. With the way Charles looks right now, abandoned and helpless, it’ll be no five minutes before someone takes him under their wing.

Charles flicks a quick look from Erik to the door. “Wait one moment,” he says. He disappears into his bedroom, and when he comes back, it’s with the cat held a little too tightly in his arms. He hands Beast over with an uncertain smile. “Would you?” he asks quietly. “I don’t want to pawn him off on just anyone, and you look like you could use a friend.”

Erik takes the cat without a word. Beast claws at his shoulders and his neck, twisting and yowling and ruining any chance at a tender goodbye. Erik can’t say he’s sad about that. He climbs the ladder with the writhing tom in his arms, doesn’t look up, doesn’t turn back, not even when he hears car doors slam down in the street. It’s only when the cab has gone, when Erik can’t even hear its horn anymore, that he buries his face in the cat’s fur, takes a deep breath. Beast yowls, and Erik drops him onto the floor. Perhaps he could use a friend, but Beast is not the friend he needs.

* * *

It’s a sunny day in May, teasing the city with the first of summer heat, unremarkable but for its warmth. Erik hasn't so much as heard mentioned the name Shaw since that night down at the docks. In an odd, unsettling way, he doesn’t really care. Sure, he’d still try to crush the man with something heavy and metallic if he ever saw him again, but that burning, all-consuming desire to find him has gone. In his unkinder moments, Erik wonders if that was Charles’s parting gift – slipping his unnoticed tendrils into Erik’s mind and twisting his personality into something less angry, less driven. Something less Erik, and more Charles.

Emma, too, has disappeared without so much as a cursory goodbye, but with her, Erik knows his disinterest is genuine. He’s never cared for her as a person, not really, and he can’t say he misses her much.

There aren’t many people he misses. Some he does, and some he always will, but all in all, Erik can’t remember the time his life was better than this. He’s a foreman himself, now, at the rival lot across the wharf with better pay and better hours, and he gets two days off every week, and a third every full month. Things have changed, and they haven’t. _Logan’s_ is still there, but Logan isn’t, packing up to Canada with some girl. Some stores opened, some stores closed. Some gays left, some gays stayed. Some mutants left while others stayed. Some think Erik is brave for staying, and others think he’s crazy, but he’s still here. He’s in the same building, even. He moved up into the topmost apartment almost two years ago, when Noriko returned to the West Coast and her family. It’s smaller still than his old place but brighter, and it has a square foot of balcony space for Erik to loiter on and smoke. Beast, loyal against all odds, likes to prowl the bannister and head-butt Erik’s chin, craving attention until the exact moment Erik grants it. He doesn’t mind Erik’s cigarette smoke even though he does it far too much, smoking all night until his lungs hurt and then opening a new packet in the morning. Every morning he has off, he stands on his balcony with a packet of Old Golds and watches people come and go on the street, and so he has perfect view of the taxi cab pulling up to the curb in front of his house, and the man climbing out of the backseat. The driver hurries to the trunk to pull out a suitcase, but the passenger doesn’t move to take it, hesitating on the sidewalk for a moment to lift his face into the light.

It takes Erik a moment to recognize him - after all, it's been three years, and it's not like he had a photograph to remember him by. Charles has changed. He looks older, but younger, too, in a way, than the last time Erik saw him. Less world-weary. There's hope in his eyes, passion; sparkling with a boyish enthusiasm, like it would be no problem to go and save the world before breakfast. He's clean and neatly dressed, a little round about the middle, but healthily so. Oxford has treated him well.

No doubt sensing his thoughts, Charles's lips curl into a smile. "My friend," he calls, waving.

Erik lifts a hand in greeting.

Charles beams at him. “I’ve whiskey,” he calls. “And a chess set. I’ll trade them for Beast, if you still have him, although I doubt I could blame you if he’s run away. He never was very sociable, for a pet. Though I might have to go out and find another cat, I’ve been longing for one the entire time. You do have room for a cat up there? And, perhaps, for me? You don’t mind if I stay for a while, do you, my friend?”

And Erik smiles.


End file.
